


Niagara Falls

by darkbluebox



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Baking, F/F, First Meetings, Fluff, Humanstuck, Humor, M/M, Pining, angsty backstory, flatmates AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-30
Updated: 2016-11-06
Packaged: 2018-07-28 07:33:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7630903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkbluebox/pseuds/darkbluebox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What is it with girls and their universally constant tendency to rip out plumbing fixtures?" Dave asked as he looked at what had once been his bathroom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Douche Upstairs

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Homestuck fic, God help me.

Karkat Vantas had never met the idiot who lived in the flat above him, and he considered it nothing short of a blessing. Sure, he felt the same way about most people he hadn’t had the misfortune of meeting (in Karkat’s considered opinion, every gormless fuck wandering the face of the planet could do whatever the fuck wanted as long as they did it on their own time and preferably as far away from him as possible) but he had a particularly sharp and preferably lethal axe to grind with the man he had come to nickname as the Douche Upstairs.

 

Karkat didn’t like many things in life, but he did like his flat. It was small, cosy and far above the noise of Houston’s permanent rush-hour which roared in the streets below, except this last point turned out to be pretty fucking irrelevant, thanks to the total and unprecedented jackassery of The Douche Upstairs.

 

The awful, thumping “music” that vibrated through the ceiling at ungodly hours of the morning was bad enough. How the fuck was he supposed to sleep when the walls were shaking at three in the morning? (He was never trying to sleep anyway, but that wasn’t the point. It was the principle of the thing.)

 

Then there was the shouting, and the rapping, and their mutant bastard offspring, the shouted rapping. The inglorious fuck didn’t even consider that there were other, decent citizens in the building who maybe, just maybe, wanted five minutes’ fucking peace now and then. Karkat knew the jerk kept his windows open, letting the air con’s best efforts go to waste and spewing that God-awful noise into the streets below. It was this that had led to their encounter of several weeks ago, the closest Karkat had ever come to “meeting” The Douche Upstairs.

 

He had been brutally awoken in the baking midday heat by a sequence of noises his ears were not accustomed to, and therefore unable to block out. Yelling and thumping. Several crashes as furniture was knocked over.

 

Karkat dug himself out from his cocoon of woollen blankets. Most of them had been forced upon him by Kanaya, who didn’t have the heart to tell her girlfriend that the demand for knitwear in Texas would never be high. He was still blinking the sleep from his eyes, meaning he almost missed the strange shapes that blurred past his window on their way down. He would have dismissed it entirely were it not for the yell which followed.

 

“STOP!”

 

And now Karkat was officially pissed. That heinous tool had taken it too far.

 

He stumbled to the window, tripping on layers of blanket and falling flat on his face. Seething with fury which was now directed at himself as much as it was The Douche Upstairs, he hauled himself up using the window frame and cranked it open, letting the smoggy street air engulf him.

 

He looked down first, and on the street far below he saw a scattering of papers and DVD cases. A few pedestrians stood around them, some of them looking up at his building. One of them took a photo.

 

A low growl in his throat, he twisted around and looked up to the window directly above his.    

 

There was a distant yell and another thump before a crow exploded from the open window in a flurry of feathers. It held in its beak a sandwich that had to weigh half its body weight.

 

Karkat watched as it swooped away, wings beating frantically to support the extra weight.

 

“Motherfucker!” The sound drew Karkat’s eyes back to the open window above. He wasn’t at a good angle, but he caught a glimpse of a strong jawline, tanned skin and albino-white hair which stood in shocking contrast. The guy looked down, and Karkat had to squint against the flash of sunlight reflected by the guy’s shades.

 

“He stole my sandwich. My _sandwich_ ,” he repeated, and Karkat wasn’t sure if the guy was talking to him or to himself.

 

Karkat scrambled for the words that usually came so quickly to him. It took a moment for the switch to flip from surprise back to rage.

 

“You woke me up, you jerkoff!”

 

But his words fell upon deaf ears. “Last piece of semi-edible food in the whole fucking flat. Damn.”

 

The mop of blond hair receded from view, and Karkat wondered if the guy had noticed he was there at all.

 

The thought only pissed off Karkat even more.

 

So, yeah, there had been that, but Karkat was fucked if he was going to consider it an actual introduction, partly because he still didn’t know the guy’s name but mostly because the fucker had completely ignored him. Weeks later it was still this that riled him more than anything.

 

When Karkat woke a month later to water flooding through the ceiling, control of his temper flew out the window like a crow with a panini.

 

“Fucker!” He splashed, barefoot, through the opaque (brown?!?) water seeping into his living room carpet and stamped out onto the landing. “FUCKER!” He yelled again as he hauled himself up the stairwell (he was too angry to stand in the elevator and listen to that God-awful music, not now, not even for a moment) until he reached the Douche’s door.

 

He hammered until it swung open under his fist, and The Upstairs Douche at last stood before him. Karkat took a second to examine the object of his fury, maybe a moment longer than necessary. He was wearing (please, for the love of God, let them be ironic) beach shorts with palm tree patterns and a matching pair of blue flip-flops. If Karkat had seen him on the street he would have taken him for a tourist and wondered how long it would be before someone tried to grab his wallet. The whole look was topped off with a pair of sunglasses which hid the wearer’s expression. Karkat drew his arms in, wishing he could see exactly where those eyes were looking. The prickly sensation of being examined subsided, and Karkat sharply reminded himself that it would be a cold day in hell when a gaudy prick in beach shorts made him feel nervous. Avoiding eye contact with those blank shades he settled his gaze on the smattering of freckles across the guy’s cheeks and nose, which, for some reason, he found faintly amusing.

 

His oncoming tirade was cut off before it could begin.

 

“Forget something, buddy?” Sunglasses Tool (new name) took a sip from a carton of apple juice.

 

“What the fuck are you-?” He glanced down. Karkat had not stopped to change out of his pyjamas. Which was what they were only in the loosest sense. To anyone else, they were more likely to be known as “a pair of shorts and nothing else”.

 

  Sunglasses Tool quirked an eyebrow at him.

 

“Listen up, you apocalyptic turd,” Karkat began. “I will dress properly when my wardrobe along with the rest of my flat is slightly less reminiscent of Niagara fucking Falls, thank you very much. And what in the name of palm-tree beech shorts is your excuse?!”

 

As slow as a glacier, the guy’s eyebrows lowered and furrowed into a frown. “…Niagara Falls?”

 

“Oh my fucking God. Please tell me you’re not stoned. Please telling me I’m not living below a stoner.”

 

“What? No.” His expression cleared like scattered clouds. “Ah, shit. You mean it’s in your place, too?”

 

Karkat noticed for the first time that the hideous flip-flops were glistening with water.

 

“You better come in. JADE!” he bellowed the last word into the flat. “IT’S GETTING THROUGH DOWNSTAIRS.”

 

Somewhere in the depths of the flat, a high pitched voice swore loudly. Sunglasses Tool gestured for him to enter and Karkat winced when his bare feet met with soggy carpet for the second time that day. Suddenly the flip-flops were looking far more appealing.

 

He refused to admit to that thought. Karkat instead noted with passing curiosity the walls which were decorated with some of the most bizarre crap Karkat had ever laid eyes on – posters of weird old films he’d never heard of, pictures of random objects ranging from skulls to robots, and several ornately framed selfies that were so shitty they could only be ironic. Karkat held back a snort by wrinkling his nose, refusing to give into the guy’s bizarre idea of humour. He had expected the habitat of someone so clearly disastrous to smell of socks, or garbage, or worse. But it didn’t. It smelt…comfortable?

 

 “Listen,” the guy began, interrupting the growing silence. “I just need, like, a second opinion, one opinion that isn’t mine and definitely one that isn’t Jade’s. Just, just tell me what’s wrong with this picture.” He pushed open his bathroom door.

 

“Well, if I were to hazard a fucking guess. I’d say that maybe your toilet should be a little more attached to the wall. And the floor.”

 

“Okay, okay, good. It’s not just me.”

 

A girl with bushy black hair and dark skin was knelt beside the detached toilet, mouth set in a determined pout and a wrench in her hand. “No, no, Dave, I told you, this is fine!”

 

“You’re fucking kidding me, right?” Karkat bit, unaware that he was taking Dave’s name, filing it, remembering it. “I’ve seen swimming pools that were less flooded.”

 

“Hey!” The girl –Jade, hadn’t he said? – wrinkled her nose. “I can totally fix it.” For a moment she took on the same blank expression Dave had greeted him with. “Uh, where are your clothes?”

 

Karkat growled.

 

“Okay!” A pair of hands clamped down on Karkat’s shoulders, and he jumped. “How about I take my guest into the kitchen and find him something while you kindly return all my plumbing fixtures to their rightful places, great, thanks.”  

 

He thought he caught sight of Jade smirking as Dave lead him from the room, and wondered furiously if Dave had made a face or something behind him. But when he turned he saw nothing more conspicuous than a slight flush across Dave’s cheeks.

 

“Oh, yeah. I forgot there isn’t actually anything in here,” Dave said as he stared into the fridge. This wasn’t strictly true. It was full of swords. Karkat didn’t ask.

 

“At least I can apologise for the mess. I’d tell you that I have a friend who’s great at plumbing and wouldn’t mind fixing it, but I think some bonds of trust have been broken today. And I’m talking, like, deep, barnacle-encrusted chains forged in the heart of a volcano. Super-strength bonds. My piss-pot hath been betrayed.”

 

Karkat gave him a long, blank stare. His rage had, somehow, impossibly, been diffused. He wasn’t sure why. Dave was weird, and it shouldn’t have appealed to him.

 

But it kind of did.

 

Oh, and there was the irritation back again, but this time directed at himself.

 

“Uh.” Karkat shuffled his feet, hand on his neck. “It’s okay.”

 

“Really? I kinda figured you would hit the roof. That is, if there’s much of your roof left to hit.”

 

“Just – I don’t know, why not hire a real fucking plumber like a normal person, jackass?”

 

“Oh.” Dave tilted his head to one side and scratched the back of his neck. “Because, I’m, uh, broke. And probably on the brink of eviction. And I can’t afford insurance, or professionals, or…well, food, or anything.”

 

A lump grew in Karkat’s throat and stuck there. The city was expensive to live in. Work was scarce, and what little there was was shit. And Dave’s collarbones were uncomfortably prominent under his skin.

 

Karkat scowled at the floor, more from awkwardness than irritation.

 

“Sorry again.”

 

“Stop apologising.”

 

_Don’t get involved, Vantas_ , Karkat ordered himself, the command echoing weakly in his mind. _Don’t get involved_.

 

“You could get a roommate. Or move in with someone,” Karkat murmured. Thoughts of biting his own tongue off flashed through his mind.

 

A smirk tugged at the corner of Dave’s lips, the first Karkat had seen. “I’m not easy to live with.”

 

Karkat nodded. He could identify with Dave’s situation, identify with it far too well.

 

He shuffled from foot to foot. He wrung his hands. And then his will broke.

 

 Oh, fuck it.

 

“I might know someone,” he groaned.

 

And that was how the world’s worst neighbour became the world’s worst flatmate.  

 


	2. Surprisingly Pleasant Company

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Karkat's lousy stupid goddamn supportive friends predictably lend a hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My god, Dave is hard to write.  
> Edit: Now with awesome art! See end notes for details.

The wheels in Dave’s mind were spinning into motion before they had even moved in together, had probably been purring away inside his skull from the moment he agreed to the random-ass neighbour’s suggestion. _It’s only a matter of time_ , it hissed. _You’ll throw the whole thing down the drastically mutilated toilet before you so much as open your mouth. You don’t work well with other people. Never have, never will._

But louder than the hissing, well-oiled gears was the grumbling in his stomach, painfully reminding him of how long it had been since his last meal. And “meal” was being kind.

 

So he had moved in with the guy, deeming it preferable to starvation and impending homelessness. Not that he found Karkat unpleasant (the word Dave would choose was maybe…intriguing?) but considering how every other flat share in his life had crashed and burned like one of his bro’s mixtapes (oh snap) he was less than eager to watch another one go the same way.

 

Especially when Karkat turned out to be surprisingly pleasant company.

 

“Balls. Balls, oh, shit, motherfUCKER!” Karkat yelped as he wrenched his controller to the side as if hoping it would change his avatar’s course. Predictably it didn’t; his pixelated little car zoomed off the edge of the road and into the abyss. “Stupid fucking bullshit game,” he muttered, shoulders slouching as he dropped the controller onto the floor with a muffled thud. He sat on the floor in front of the couch with one of Dave’s legs on either side (not touching, although the position still felt kind of intimate – although that was probably Dave reading into everything too much like he always did) while Dave studied the screen over the top of Karkat’s permanently-ruffled hair. His car rolled over the finish line in half-assed fashion, as though, yeah, that little electronic driver dude was fucking king of the rainbow road, but he was being totally cool about it, because his skills were so damn raw he didn’t need to display them lest the crowd be taken down by mass salmonella from all the super-raw-meat-skills he had been serving and – alright. Time to move on from that analogy.

 

 

“You’re thinking something really fucking stupid right now,” Karkat interjected. “Not that there’s ever a time when you’re _not_ , but what I mean is that on a scale from “making me want to leave the room via the door” to “making me want to leave via the window and subsequent fifty-foot-drop” you’re planted firmly on the latter end of the spectrum.”  

 

“What makes you say that?” Dave dropped his controller down beside him.

 

“You’ve got that face on.” Karkat’s head flopped back so it rested between Dave’s knees. “I’m-thinking-stupid-shit face.”

 

“I don’t know what to tell you bro, this is my normal face.”

 

“Exactly, Strider, Ex-fucking-actly.”

 

Dave leaned forwards so his head was right above Karkat’s. “Is that your weird-ass roundabout way of asking what I’m thinking?”

 

“What? No!” Karkat scrunched up his nose. Dave studied the veiled panic in his eyes with amusement. “Did you miss the part about my desire to jump out of the window to escape the festering brown tidal wave of your infinite horseshit? I under no circumstances want to hear _any_ of the fucking sewage that drifts through your mind.”

 

“ _None_ of it?” Dave grinned faintly.

 

“Well.” A red flush spread over Karkat’s brown skin. “Fine, maybe some of it. But only because it’s impossible to read anything from your face when you hide it behind those gaudy plastic pieces of shit.”  

 

“What, you mean these?” He touched a finger to the side of his shades. Karkat scowled in affirmation. Dave paused for a second, thinking, before he hooked the glasses up and off his face. He looked back down at Karkat, blinking in the sudden light and ignoring the queasy nervousness which always came with such an action whether he liked it or not.

 

Karkat’s features momentarily slackened.

 

“Yeah, I get that a lot.” Dave moved to replace his shades.

 

“No, wait.” Karkat’s hand came from nowhere, forcing his arm to a halt. He studied Dave’s eyes, awestruck.

 

“I’d rather not.” Dave pulled his arm from Karkat’s grip, which was surprisingly strong, and let his shades drop back into place. Karkat failed to mask his disappointment.

 

“Well if you insist on wearing those things all the time then maybe you could do us all a favour and be a little more expressive instead,” Karkat huffed, gaze dropping away.

 

“Alright. I’ll tell you what I’m thinking right now. Deal?”

 

Karkat’s gaze turned back up to meet his, brow wrinkling. “Shoot.”

 

“You look kinda cute when you’re annoyed.”

 

Karkats brow wrinkled, and then wrinkled further as he struggled to force himself into a straight face. Dave began to chuckle, and before long it became a full-blown laugh, mostly at Karkat’s growing rage but also partly to hide his own nerves because, goddamn, he didn’t usually drop all his guards like that and what was he thinking? Bad things happened when he let his mouth run wild and unfiltered. They always did.

 

But Karkat snorted as the last of his self-control deserted him, and the sound pulled some of the tension from Dave’s shoulders.

 

So, yeah. The roommate thing was going well, so far. But that only made the inevitable train-crash all the more daunting. He liked Karkat.

 

But then, that was how it always started.

 

***

 

“Karkat. Karkat, I need you to move.”

 

Karkat groaned.

 

“I can’t get into that cupboard with you lying there.”

 

“I can’t do a lot of things I want to do, Kanaya. Life sucks balls.”

 

Kanaya prodded him with her foot. “I would not describe your company as unpleasant, Karkat.”

 

Karkat murmured something unintelligible in response. He squinted up at her. “What?”

 

“I am saying that your company is not unpleasant. The opposite is precisely the assumption I wish you to avoid when I ask the following.”

 

“Please get on with it, Kanaya. I know it’s hard to tell but I’m actually really fucking busy down here.”

 

“It is with regard to this current occupation of yours that I wish to speak. So, once again bearing in mind that your company is not unpleasant-”

 

“-thanks Kanaya, you sure know how to make me feel all fucking warm and squishy inside-”

 

“-I was hoping I could inquire as to why you are unable to lie in a heap of self-pity on your own kitchen floor? You are making certain activities rather difficult.”

 

“No, you may not. Sorry to be such a goddamn inconvenience.” He pouted for a moment, but after a moment under Kanaya’s stern gaze he rolled to one side. She retrieved her crockery from the cupboard with a slight shake of her head.

 

He stayed sulking on the floor while Kanaya clattered around with various pots and pans and when Rose stuck her head out from their tiny cupboard-sized study to ask about dinner he did his best to ignore the vomit-inducingly sweet domesticity and veiled flirting.

 

He failed to ignore Rose when she tripped over him and landed on the floor in a heap of purple knitwear.

 

“Oh. Good evening, Karkat,” she said calmly as Kanaya rushed over to help her up. “I didn’t see you there.”

 

“Yeah, no shit.”        

 

“I see you have forsaken the more popular furnishings preferred by modern society in favour of returning to the reliably horizontal linoleum of our ancestors. I applaud your traditionalism.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.”

 

“Could I offer you a velvet pillow, or would that be in breach of your furniture-abolitionist stances?”

 

Karkat groaned again.

 

“Please forgive him, Rose. There is sure to be an explanation for his behaviour, although I cannot vouch for its validity.”  

 

Rose chuckled as Kanaya brushed off her shoulders. Kanaya smiled and pressed a kiss to Rose’s temple, at which point Karkat closed his eyes, letting his head thump to the floor. He crossed his arms over his head.

 

The pot bubbling away on the stove was not loud enough to conceal entirely the whispered exchange, but Karkat decided he didn’t care anyway.

 

Something nudged his head. He swatted limply without looking his eyes. It nudged him again. He opened his eyes.

 

Rose beamed down at him.

 

“Oh fuck no.”

 

“Oh fuck _yes_.” Rose smiled. “We’re doing this man. We’re making this happen.”

 

“If you ever quote that shitty webcomic at me again I’m going to- aaaargh!”

 

 He was caught off-guard; they hoisted him up and dropped him into one of the bar stools that clustered around the kitchen island.

 

“No, get the fuck off – can’t you see I’m fucking busy down there you indescribable asswipes?!”

 

“We are very sorry, Karkat, but you cannot continue sulking on our kitchen floor like this.”

 

“I’m afraid that we are returning you swiftly to the age of seating,” Rose added. “The furniture companies caught wind of your rebellion and now Sweden is threatening invasion. I warned you about those chairs, man.”

 

“No, fuck off, I fucking hate both of you, that didn’t even make sense.” They pinned his arms to his sides.

 

“Karkat, we all know you’re here because you need help with something, even if asking for it is slightly beyond your reach. If you won’t talk to us, Rose will be forced to resort to desperate measures.”

 

“Well, colour me shit-stain brown with terror! I better start preparing my asshole for the pair of knitting needles which are surely about to be rammed up there with all the delicate precision of a baboon wielding chopsticks!”

 

“Is it just me, or are your tirades becoming more poetic than usual, Karkat?”

 

“Fuck off Rose, you don’t scare me.”

 

“I don’t have to. I just have to understand you.”

 

“Oh, shit.” Karkat froze as terror began to creep into his stomach and work its way upwards. “Kanaya! Kanaya, don’t let her fucking psychoanalyse me, come on!” His voice grew higher as his panic rose. “I thought we were friends…” He could have been pleading with a brick wall – albeit one failing to hide a smirk.

 

Rose pulled out a notepad and pen, speaking as though into a Dictaphone. “To begin with, the subject is hyper-aggressive and overly defensive, suggesting his compulsive desire to compensate for his lack of-”

 

“Alright, alright, Jesus, I’ll fucking talk, if only to keep you quiet. Christ.”

 

Rose smirked triumphantly. “The subject folds after less than thirty seconds, such is the prowess of the interviewer’s analytical insights.”

 

“Please, for the love of dick-munching fuck can you knock off that third person bullshit? It’s like trying to have a conversation with Terezi.”

 

Rose fell silent, amusement still glittering in her eyes. Karkat sighed.

 

“It’s – I – Look, I don’t want to hang around my flat too much right now. That’s all.”

 

“Elaborate please, Karkat,” Kanaya said patiently.

 

“Look, I just… it’s about my flatmate.”

 

“Dave?” Rose’s face clouded with concern. They had met several times and appeared to get on well, both sharing the same bullshit crazy sense of humour that drove Karkat up the wall.

 

“Well, yeah. I mean, it’s not his fault. No, actually, fuck that, it’s totally his fault, he just knows nothing about it, because he’s an oblivious fuckwad.”

 

“Karkat. We don’t follow,” Kanaya interrupted, bringing Karkat to a halt.

 

“Fine. Okay, fine. I…” Karkat looked down to hide his flush. “…might like him.”

 

There was a momentary pause. “…and?”

 

“What do you mean, and?!”

 

“You mean that’s it? That’s a relief. Rose, would you mind setting the table?”

 

“What? Fuck off! You put me through the Spanish inquisition until I bear my soul and then go about your business?”

 

“Well Karkat, it’s hard to tell when you have a genuine problem from when you’re being needlessly melodramatic, so we like to confirm that it is the latter, which, in this case, it is. Are you staying for dinner? I made soup.”

 

“In what universe is this not a genuine fucking problem? Did a fucking cartoon piano land on my head this morning in hysterically unoriginal comic fashion? Have I been hallucinating my cute-ass blond flatmate with his stupid shitty music taste and those…those fucking _eyes_ …” He realised they were staring at him again. He sighed. “I do have a genuine fucking problem.”

 

Kanaya began ladling steaming green liquid into bowls, her expression unreadable. Rose moved away to set the table, perhaps in order to give them some space.

 

“This doesn’t happen often for you, does it?” Kanaya handed him a bowl. Karkat scowled at his reflection in the soup.

 

“No. Thanks so fucking much for bringing that up.”

 

“You do not seem to realise that there is a very simple solution to this.”

 

“Like fuck there is!”

 

“Ask him out,” Kanaya said.

 

Karkat froze. “But what if he says no?”

 

“But what if he doesn’t?” she replied smoothly.

 

Karkat frowned, turning it over in his head. And then he sighed, because, of course, Kanaya was right, as per fucking usual. “Lousy stupid goddamn supportive friend.”

 

Kanaya smiled.              

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit for the fantastic art goes to hamdonut!!! [Here's the tumblr post if you wanna show 'em some love.](http://notedchampagne.tumblr.com/post/150967662310/day-2-of-davekat-week-and-you-can-see-me-and-my)


	3. The Other Flatmates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dave's past experiences with flatmates come back to haunt him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you ever just wake up like "I'm feeling vaguely angsty today".

The first guy Dave had ever shared living space with had been his brother, and the less said about that the better. As he had grown older, the truth had become clear: one Strider per household was more than enough, probably one of the few facts left upon which he and his bro could agree.

 

His second flatmate had seemed better, at least at first. John was funny, kind, a little goofy. It had been good. Too good.

 

Six months. Six months before Dave had blown it.

 

The sticky city heat had been far too much, enough so that maybe it had gone to his head. Dave liked to pretend that was the case. John had been wandering around the flat in his dorky cargo shorts, shirt long abandoned. Dave was – literally – sticking to his usual tee-shirt and black jeans, because like fuck was he showing any sign of weakness in the face of such burning onslaught. John could wimp around all he wanted, scantily clad and sweating. Dave was a southerner, born and bred. Surrendering to the sun would bring shame upon his bloodline. Grandpappy’s crops would wither and die, flocks of crows would soar over the ol’ family farm until the sun vanished from sight, and the ground would shake and crack like the orchestral opening to an oncoming apocalypse. Or at least, that’s how he explained it to John. He was pretty sure nobody in his family had ever even owned a farm – just an endless line of sword-wielders and DJs, as far back as there were swords to wield and sick beats to jam to.    

 

Sunglasses were fine, though. Sunglasses were always fine.

 

Sunglasses meant John couldn’t see where Dave’s eyes were as he wandered around the flat in the baking heat, a thin sheen of sweat glistening across his skin when the sun caught it.

 

“You want anything from the freezer, man?” John asked with a cheerful grin as he stooped down to rummage through the drawers.

 

“Nah.” Dave watched from his seat on the counter. The fan sat between them, slowly shaking its head back and forth and doing little more than pushing humid air from one corner of the room to another.

 

“Come on, Dave. I know you’re warm too, just admit it already.” John rummaged around in the depths of the bottom drawer before finding a long-forgotten box of popsicles. He yanked one out, triumph written across his features.

 

“Nah.” Dave watched as John pulled away the wrapper. He slid the tip into his mouth, eyelids sliding shut.

 

“Ah Ma Gahd,” he mumbled around the popsicle, before pulling it out with a pop. “So good.”

 

“Uhuh.” Dave’s mouth suddenly wasn’t working the way he wanted it to.

 

“Dave, you should seriously have one of these. Come on, I can _see_ how red you are.” Suddenly John was standing in front of him, hands on the counter, trapping him on either side. His legs brushed against John’s sides, and when he tried to shuffle backwards his back met with cold kitchen tiles. John held up a second Popsicle, waved it back and forth before his eyes like the pendulum of a clock. “C’mon, Dave. It’s _apple flavour_.”

 

“Uh.” Dave swallowed, a single traitorous bead of sweat trickling down the back of his neck. His mind had never worked so sluggishly in his life. The so-called master of rhyme and rap was all out of words. “Uh, you know those things are by Betty Crocker, right?”

 

An outright lie, but enough to distract John’s attention from him, at least for a moment. John shrieked – Dave would never understand whatever childhood trauma had lead him to such responses – and dived for the box.

 

“You sick, lying bastard, they are _not!_ ” John yelped, clutching the packaging in his hands. By the time he turned back around Dave was safely down from the counter and making a break for the living room. “ _Get back here!”_

Dave wasn’t quick enough. John pounced on him like a man who had known years of bitter ass-famine finding an oasis of butts in the harsh desert wastelands. If Dave had been hoping to avoid bringing shame to his family, he had failed – he went down with a yelp and with as much fight as a soggy dishtowel. He could almost hear his family’s non-existent crops withering.

 

“You would _dare_ to besmirch the good and pure name of innocent popsicles with your lies and slander?!” John had him pinned in seconds.

 

“Dude, get _off_.” Dave tried to wriggle, but with John’s hands pushing down on his shoulders it was no easy task.

 

“I will. If you admit you’re hot. We both know you’re the cool kid, mister Strider, but you’re taking it _way_ too literally.”

 

“No, fuck, _you’re_ the one who’s hot.” It took a moment for Dave’s own words to hit him, for the bottom to drop out of his stomach and for panic to set in. “No, fuck, wait, I meant, uh temperature-wise, not that you aren’t also – I mean, it’s not like I’ve _thought_ about it or anything, I mean, fuck, fuck, stop looking at me like that.” John’s eyebrows, which had been scaling his forehead at the rate of Olympic mountaineers, slid back down into a frown. He slid to one side, releasing Dave from his grip.

 

“Okay. Jeez, no need to freak out. I knew what you meant.” John stood up and offered Dave his hand. “You’re so gay!”

 

“ _You’re_ gay.” Dave retorted, taking the hand. It was a joke they had gone through a thousand times. It didn’t feel as funny as usual, but he didn’t let John see that as he pulled him to his feet.

 

 It was a week later when he broke the news. The heat of the previous week had peaked, and now the days were cooler, the evenings pleasant and quiet. John had been splayed across the couch watching some shitty movie or another, same cargo shorts but now with the addition of his usual green slime ghost shirt.

 

“So.” Dave stood in the living room doorway, fingers interlocked. He had spent the last few days texting intermittently with his bro. He wasn’t sure it had been of any real help, but things always seemed clearer after a feelings jam with another Strider. “So, I’m bisexual.”

 

John fumbled for the remote, hitting pause. “What? Sorry Dave, I didn’t hear you!”

 

Dave stepped into the room, feet scuffing against the purple carpet. “I’m bisexual.”

 

“Oh. Okay.” John’s voice sounded as it always did; light, carefree.

 

“So you’re okay with it?”

 

“Yeah, I don’t mind. As long as you don’t have a crush on me or anything I guess it doesn’t make a difference. Wanna watch this movie with me?”

 

They continued to be fine, for a while. Then one night John had brought his girlfriend over, and Dave had realised that he really hadn’t been fine at all.

 

“I have to move out,” he had said one morning as John sat on the kitchen counter before him, the same place Dave had been sitting not so long ago.

 

John looked up from his cornflakes, rubbed a bit of sleep from his eye. “Uh, what?”

 

“I have to move out. Sorry dude.” He dropped a pair of pop tarts into the toaster without turning.

 

“Oh. Uh, okay.”

 

They were shortly joined by John’s girlfriend, who wandered in in one of John’s rumpled tee-shirts and smiled at Dave warmly as she wrapped an arm around John’s waist. They dropped the conversation after that.

 

He lived on his own for a few months, chatted with John online from time to time. It got easier. The friendship survived, even if John was a little more distant, a little more cautious than before. He stopped mentioning his girlfriend as often, and Dave wondered if he had guessed. If he had, he never mentioned it.

 

About half a year later, John’s sister moved to the city. John asked if Dave wanted a new flatmate and, after a quick glance at his bank statement, he realised that he certainly did. Jade was great – fun, excitable, clever. She reminded him of John.

 

Again, it had been good, for a while.

 

John came over to visit way more often, and Dave was surprised to find that the presence of his girlfriend no longer upset him. Roxy was a ball, always ready for a good time.

 

When John and Roxy weren’t around it was just him and Jade, messing around with computer games and staying up until sunrise. He found he was better at listening than talking when it came to Jade – especially when it came to stories of her travels and adventures.

 

One night Jade had asked him to the movies. It wasn’t until half way through the trailers and their hands met inside the popcorn bag that he realised it was a date.

 

It had been kind of scary. Kind of exciting, too.

 

It had been fine until they returned home. Standing in the living room with moonlight painting silver streaks of light across the room, Jade had smiled, taken his hands, stood on her tiptoes, kissed him.

 

That had been scary, too. Exciting, too. Good, really good.

 

Until he remembered how much she reminded him of John.

 

Because Dave was a useless cowardly sack of shit, he couldn’t bring himself to explain himself to Jade. She gave him more understanding than he deserved, but, as with John, it was as though she had taken a step back from him.

 

As much as both of them tried to pretend otherwise, it was awkward. Jade moved out, leaving Dave once more in an empty flat he couldn’t afford on his own. Again, they remained friends, but the hurt was still there, lying beneath.

 

Two more flatmates in quick procession. One unable to live with Dave once he found out about his sexuality. The other Dave had made a pass at after too many drinks to see in the new year, a pass which had been disastrously rejected.   

 

Dave had been growing desperate, growing insane. Each time he had been so sure he was safe, was happy, and then it would all fall apart. And in every disaster there was one common cause: him. It had been his fault, every single time.

 

Then he had met Karkat.

 

Karkat was unlike anyone he had ever lived with. Karkat was messy, rude, aggressive, aggravating.  

 

Yet, somehow, he was perfect.

 

And so Dave was determined. He wasn’t going to mess this up for himself. He wasn’t going to ruin everything, just as he always did. He was keeping the goddamn lid on his emotions sealed so tight the government was looking into using the container as a hiding place for state secrets. And it would be a goddamn fantastic hiding place. Nobody would ever know about the contents of Area 51, and nobody would ever know how much he enjoyed having Karkat around.

 

Except, of course, for Dave.

 

But that, too, was fine. Dave could torture himself with the image of Karkat’s teeth digging into his bottom lip as he concentrated on whatever task was challenging him all he wanted. Or the memory of Karkat’s expression, so aghast, so open, so awestruck, when he first saw Dave’s freaky red eyes. Or the ghost of Karkat’s breath against the skin of his neck when, after a long night of Good Luck Chuck, his head dropped onto Dave’s shoulder and his breathing became slow and steady with sleep.

 

Dave could think about it all he liked. It wasn’t hurting anyone, other than maybe himself. But as long as he didn’t act on it, he was fine.

 

So when Karkat began to avoid him, he was 100% sure it was nothing he had done.

 

After the third night in a row of Karkat shutting himself away in his room while Dave was left alone on the couch, he began to wonder if he should do something. The first night he had knocked on the door and had his head bitten off for his troubles, and since then had left Karkat alone. But as the sun was setting on the fourth day his phone buzzed with a message from Rose. That in itself was not unusual – they had met a bunch of times, Karkat being a mutual friend. Rose was friendly, if, on occasion, terrifying for reasons Dave couldn’t quite put his finger on.

 

She was also spookily good at reading him, a skill few had developed to such an extent.

 

_Received: Karkat came over today._

 

He frowned at the screen for a few seconds. By Rose’s standards it was a suspiciously pedestrian message.

 

_Sent: Uh, okay?_

 

After five minutes without a response he decided to investigate. Karkat had arrived home nearly an hour ago, heading straight for his room as he had been doing so all week with a harried expression and his shoulders hunched. So when Dave knocked at his door and was met only with silence, his suspicions were immediately raised.

 

He pushed the door tentatively open.

 

He had only been in Karkat’s room a few times before – the guy was pretty neurotic when it came to personal space and they both preferred to hang out in the living room anyway – so the dim light and smattering of posters across the walls were no surprise to him. Karkat was lying flat on his bed, for once not curled up in blankets but instead spread out, eyes closed with headphones blaring in his ears. Dave took a seat on the edge of the bed and Karkat’s eyes snapped open. His headphones slipped from his head as he jolted upright.

 

“Hey, chill. It’s just me.”

 

“Son of a fuck, Dave, have you heard of this exciting new invention called knocking?!” Karkat snapped, rubbing at his eyes. The bags beneath were a little heavier than usual.

 

“Bet your ass I have. I fucking patented that bitch. I’m currently collecting the legal fees from anyone who has ever knocked on any door, ever, starting with you. Pay up.”

 

“Fuck off.” Karkat flopped back, but didn’t close his eyes, looking up at Dave instead. Dave could never get over how dark Karkat’s gaze was, irises black like the night sky. He could have shivered.

 

“Nah.” Dave took Karkat’s headphones and slipped them over his head, ignoring the indignant protests from their owner. The music was loud, the drumbeat drilling into his skull. “Wow, this is shit.”

 

“Then don’t listen to it, jackass.” Karkat snatched the headphones back with a scowl.

 

  Dave shrugged, his head tilted a little to one side as he studied Karkat. As if sensing Dave’s gaze, Karkat folded in on himself, arms crossed over his chest. “What the fuck do you want, asshole?”

 

“Um,” Dave began. He sensed that the words _I’m worried_ wouldn’t go down well. “Rose texted me.”

 

Karkat visibly tensed. “About what?”

 

“She just said she saw you today, that’s all.”

 

Karkat muttered something Dave couldn’t quite catch along the lines of _interfering friends_ before huffing out an irritated sigh. “Well, yeah, I did.”

 

“Okay.” Dave fidgeted with the bedcovers for a moment, wishing he were less awkward. Awkwardness was uncool, and if there was one thing any Strider worth their salt _never_ was, it was uncool. The material was soft under his fingers, and he didn’t doubt it would smell of the inexplicable cinnamon scent that seemed to follow Karkat around. There was a vague urge to bury his face into it and snuggle up beside Karkat in his bed that was way too big for one person. Naturally, he quickly banished the thoughts.

 

“Ugh. Fine. I mean, I was going to actually wait for a while and figure this all out properly in my head, but fine, fuck it, whatever. Clearly the power couple to end all others had other fucking ideas.” Karkat pushed himself up, letting his legs tumble from the bed so he was sitting alongside Dave, their legs just barely brushing against one another.

 

 “Uh, okay,” Dave said, his pulse speeding up beneath his skin. Which was stupid, because he was clearly overreacting. This probably wasn’t a big deal, he was just freaking like usual.

 

“So, uh, yeah.” Karkat crossed his arms again, casting Dave a sideward glance. “It’s just because these last few days, I’ve been thinking about this a lot. About us.”

 

“Alright,” Dave said calmly. Red alarms began to flash in his mind.

 

“It’s been pretty good, hasn’t it? I mean, I’ve been enjoying it. Hanging out, and…and stuff.”

 

“Right.” Dave’s mouth was dry. But? There was a _but_ , coming for sure.

 

“But I’ve just been thinking lately. I dunno, if you wanted to try something different, maybe.”  

 

Fuck. Fuck. Dave had blown it. He had no idea how or why, but he had blown it. Karkat wanted to leave. He had been too stupid to see it coming. “Oh.”

 

“So, yeah. I was just thinking, maybe you’d like to try, uh, dating or something.” Karkat looked away, drawing his knees up and in against his chest.

 

For a few moments Dave was too surprised to do anything. “…huh?”

 

“I’m asking you out, you dense sack of shit!” Karkat snapped, turning to face him.

 

“Oh.” Dave paused. Before he could stop himself, a bubble of laughter burst past his lips. “Shit, sorry, oh my God. You sure know how to sweet-talk a dude.”

 

“Shut the fuck up, Strider.”Karkat curled back in on himself. His skin, while brown, wasn’t anywhere near as dark as Dave’s, and certainly not dark enough to hide the flush spreading over his cheeks. “Answer my fucking question.”

 

“Shut up or answer? I can’t do both.” His joke earned him a pointy elbow to the ribs.

 

“Quit fucking around, I’m serious.” Karkat’s voice quietened, a rarity in itself. It was in moments like this – when he wasn’t yelling or ranting – that he was at his most vulnerable, or at least it seemed so to Dave.

 

He wanted an answer. Shit.

 

Dave turned his head away, eyes glazing over the movie posters scattered across his walls. Will Smith beamed at him from one, happily unaware of all that was unfolding before him. Dave thought about John, about Jade, about all the others who had left him. “Karkat, I… No. It’s a bad idea.” He held back the tremor from his voice.

 

“Oh. Right.” Karkat’s shoulders slouched, as if it had been the answer he had expected. “That’s fine. Whatever.” He rolled back onto his side, pulling his headphones back into place. “I’ll see you around.”

 

And now Dave was really panicking, because this hadn’t been what he had wanted, what he had expected, and if Karkat hadn’t been upset at him before he certainly was now. “Karkat-”

 

“You don’t have to fucking explain yourself to me, it’s fucking fine,” Karkat growled, the bite in his words saying otherwise. “I get it. You can leave now.”

 

Not knowing what else to do, Dave stood and left, pulling the door shut behind him. He stood in the living room, alone, and let his eyes slide shut.

 

“… _fuck_.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I was not expecting this chapter to be done this soon. It took a lot of different directions from what I was expecting, but hopefully you enjoyed it! Next chapter will be up, uh, *spins wheel*... soon?


	4. Not a Therapist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baking, therapy, resolution.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It only occurred to me about half way through this chapter that flapjacks might not even be a thing in America. Wikipedia says they're called oat bars for you guys? And flapjack is a word for pancakes there? Oops.
> 
> In case it wasn't obvious, in this case it's the yummy sugary baked oat thing. Damn, I made myself hungry.
> 
> Also, *clutches chest* I love Rose.

Karkat fell asleep in a heap of hand-knitted blankets and self-pity. When he woke up, his only clue to how much time had passed was the sunlight flowing slowly in through his window. He stumbled over, eyes scrunched up and growling to himself, and rested his hands on the windowsill for a moment before yanking the curtains across, plunging the room back into darkness.

 

He pulled his phone from the pocket of the joggers he had fallen asleep in and squinted at the display, horrified by the ridiculously reasonable time at which he had awoken. If he had wanted to impersonate a functioning member of society he would have bought himself a fucking briefcase.

 

A faint clattering echoed from the kitchen, and Karkat began to suspect that he had not been awoken simply by daylight.

 

He picked up the scent of oats and sugar in the living room and followed it to the kitchen, where Dave was stirring a pot of something on the stove and muttering to himself.

 

“Dave, what in the name of fresh fucking shitstains are you doing?”

 

Dave jumped, the contents of the pot sloshing over the side. “Jesus fuck, what were you saying last night about knocking?”

 

“This is the kitchen, douchecanoe, it’s a shared space. And _you_ were the idiot that started rambling about copyright infringements and demanding patent money for the right to knock, so go fuck yourself.” Karkat ground his teeth as he spoke, and Dave cocked an eyebrow. The memories of their last conversation floated back to Karkat’s mind, and he dropped his eyes. It wasn’t fair to bite Dave’s head off because of his own stupid fucking problems. “Just answer the dumb question.”

 

Dave turned and gestured vaguely towards the counter. Karkat’s eyes swept over an overturned bag of oats, an empty tub of butter, a set of kitchen scales Karkat hadn’t even known they owned and several splatters of unidentifiable golden liquid.

 

“That’s not a fucking answer, that’s an assortment of random foods and appliances that have fuck all to do with each other.”

 

“On the contrary.” Dave lifted a spoon from the pot, twirled it, and watched several more droplets of golden liquid drip onto the counter. “This is a goddamn food fiesta. Look at those oats, they’re having the time of their fuckin’ lives, all splayed across the counter and shit. Like fuck they have nothing to do with each other, this is the goddamn social event of the culinary year. See this spoon and saucepan? This is their fuckin’ marriage ceremony, and my awesome goo is the literal glue holding their relationship together.”

 

Karkat gave Dave a pointedly blank stare. “Not to imply that you’re usually the grand fucking master of sense and rationality, but you’re making about as much fucking sense right now as a drunkard with a speech impediment. Actually, scratch that, that’s the sense level you’re usually at, this is about three stages of bullshit below it.”

 

“Well, fuck.” Dave returned the spoon to the saucepan. “Sorry.” Then, after a pause, “I didn’t really sleep.”

 

“Oh,” Karkat said with all the eloquence of the aforementioned drunkard.

 

“No, no, it’s cool, I just… started making flapjacks?”

 

“Oh. Okay.” Karkat wrinkled his nose, scanning the kitchen’s contents once more. “Where did you even get this stuff?” They were lucky to have so much as a pot noodle in their cupboards at any given moment, let alone actual baking supplies.

 

“I went out.”

 

“Oh.” Yup, Karkat sure was overusing that particular syllable.

 

Dave dipped his pinkie finger into the golden liquid before sticking it into his mouth with an appreciative hum. “Not the worst-tasting sludge I’ve ever produced.” He caught Karkat’s eye – or at least he probably did, it was always hard to tell with those insufferable shades. “You want to help?”

 

Karkat’s eyes scanned him up and down. He chewed on his lip, thinking for a moment of the still-warm bed in his room, but the syrupy smell wafting from the cooker and the thinly-veiled kicked puppy expression won him over almost instantly.

 

Dave removed the saucepan from the stove and handed it to Karkat, careful to keep their hands from touching as he passed it over.

 

“Uh.” Karkat stared down at the swirling gold liquid. “What do I do?”

 

“Fucked if I know. Dump it in with the oats, maybe?”

 

“I thought you knew what you were doing!”

 

“When do I _ever_?” Dace snickered, but when Karkat tried to elbow him he stepped away from the contact, expression dropping for a moment into blank panic.

 

“Come on, dude, it’ll go all solid.”

 

Karkat glanced back down at the pan which, for a moment, he had forgotten. He scowled and tipped the contents into the awaiting bowl before dropping the empty pan down beside it.

 

Dave nodded in approval, picking up the spoon and shoving it in his direction. “You gotta be quick. Shake it all up like a James Bond cocktail.”

 

Karkat prodded feebly at a few lumps, earning a “Tch” of disapproval.

 

“I thought you didn’t know what you were doing?!” he bit.

 

“Yeah, but I can still tell when you’re fucking up a poor defenceless mixture. That poor sludge is gonna file for assault by cutlery, and I’m Dave Strider, hottest lawyer in town, representin’ all goods both sweet and delectable. What I’m saying is, your ass is mine. Goddamn, give it here.” He tried to nudge Karkat out of the way, but Karkat held fast.

 

“No, fuck you, I’m great at this. Do you know how many Gordon Ramsay shows I’ve seen? All of the shows, fucker. All of them!” This time, Karkat’s elbow met its target, and Dave grunted in irritation.  

 

“That probably explains more about you as a person than anything else I’ve ever heard you say to date. Now hand over the fucking spoon!”

 

“Never!” Karkat turned, trying to angle his body between Dave and the bowl, but what he didn’t expect was Daves arms wrapping around him in an attempt to snatch the spoon from either side.

 

“No, fuck you, fuck, fuck-!” Karkat was cut off when Daves arms hooked under his and lifted him into the air. Karkat shrieked in outrage, and he heard a muffled snort from behind him. The snort soon turned into a chuckle, and suddenly their centre of gravity shifted, sending them both toppling backwards onto the floor.

 

Miracle of all miracles, the mix stayed inside the bowl. Somewhere, far away, Karkat didn’t doubt that a certain juggalo nut was in ecstasies.

 

He blinked at the bowl clutched instinctively to his chest, then at the pair of knees on either side of him and the pair of arms still wrapped around his sides. Last but not least, he tilted his head back to find Dave’s face inches from his.

 

At some point in the scuffle Dave’s shades had been knocked from his head, leaving him blinking and exposed, bright red eyes against dark brown skin, and up this close Karkat could make out every freckle. With his back pressed against Dave’s chest he swore for a moment he could feel Dave’s heartbeat, hammering away at a dizzying pace which was perfectly matched by his own.

 

Karkat’s eyes flickered to Dave’s lips.

 

Dave pulled backwards so sharply that Karkat tumbled backwards, smacking his head off the cold kitchen floor tiles.

 

Karkat yelped. “Fuck, what even-?!”

 

“Shit, shit, shit man, I’m sorry.” Dave, already back on his feet, reached a tentative hand out to Karkat’s shoulder before it stopped dead in the air. He pulled it back before blinking once again and snatching his shades from their landing place on the floor.

 

Karkat climbed back to his feet, shoulders trembling. “Look,” he spat, “you don’t need to treat me like some glass-boned fucking baby, okay? I’m a grownup, I can handle goddamn rejection without you acting as though I’m going to melt through the floor at the slightest contact. Or being all super-nice to me because my poor sick heart can’t take the beating. Fuck that, okay, the last think I wanted was a big deal made out of this.” He paused, breathing heavily through his nose. “Can we… Can we just be normal? Without you acting all jumpy and shit?”

 

“Right. Right, fuck, sorry.”

 

Karkat bent over to retrieve the bowl. He had dropped it when he had flopped backwards, but thankfully the contents were now too thick to spill easily. He held it out to Dave with a sigh. “So show me how it’s done.”   

 

“Yeah. Sorry again.”

 

“Quit apologising, fuckwad.”

 

The nickname had the corners of Dave’s mouth twitching upwards as he took the bowl from Karkat’s hands. This time, he didn’t avoid contact as the bowl was passed between them, fingers brushing momentarily against each other.

 

Yeah, back to normal. Or as normal as Karkat could hope for.

 

They finished the flapjacks in near-silence, but not what Karkat would call the uncomfortable kind. More like…companionable.

 

For the most part, the flapjacks tasted fine. But Karkat couldn’t shake the feeling that Dave had missed an important ingredient.

 

He decided not to mention it when Dave asked for his impression. Instead they sat in front of the TV and chewed as the sun rose on the city.

 

***

 

“Hmm.” Rose’s jaw worked in steady motions as she pushed the sample around her mouth. “Hmm.”

 

“Hmm?” Dave tilted his head to one side.

 

“Hmm,” Rose confirmed with a nod.

 

“Alright, great, thanks for the feedback, I’ll be sure to make a note of it.”

 

Rose smiled and placed the plate of brownies back on the counter. “I expect you to make extensive notes of all our conversations. The wider scientific community would benefit greatly from them.”

 

“Fuck no. The wider scientific community can suck my dick.”

 

“I’ll let them know.” She slid the rucksack she had arrived with from her shoulders. “Is Karkat around?”

 

“Nah, he pulled the afternoon shift at Larry’s Strip Joint.”

 

“Is that what the cool kids call Starbucks these days? Because I could have sworn that’s where he worked.”

 

“Lies, Rose. Lies told to protect your sweet and innocent psyche. Karkat is a secret pole-dancer. He’s got a practice one in his room, I swear, I’ll show you.”

 

Rose yanked the zip of her bag open and a mountain of woollen material erupted from within. “Perhaps another time. I was only hoping to drop this off.”

 

“Oh God. Is that another fucking blanket? Jesus, Rose, he doesn’t need any more. It’s fucking August. Hibernation won’t be necessary for, like, another three months, and I think he has plenty in the way of cocoon-building material as it is.”

 

Rose swept past him, full-length indigo skirt swishing as she walked. “You certainly seem familiar with his sleeping arrangements.” She smirked as she folded the blanket in two and hung it over the back of the couch. “And don’t think the scientific community is going to miss your spiel about Karkat the stripper. I’d say it’s all fairly conclusive.”

 

“I – What? Jesus shitting Christ, _no_.”

 

“I’ll be sure to mention the pole dancing to Karkat next time I see him, although I hope he won’t be insulted if I decline any offer of a demonstration.”

 

“Oh God, _please_ no.”

 

Rose turned back to face him, one eyebrow quirked upwards. “At the risk of sounding excessively overt, I _was_ joking.”

 

“Hm.” Dave rounded the couch and flopped down, fingering the violet blanket. “It doesn’t match the colour scheme.”

 

“You are under no obligation to keep it there. I was simply leaving it somewhere obvious.”

 

“Well, at the risk of sounding excessively overt…”

 

Rose snorted. “Screw you, Strider.” She took a seat on the arm of the sofa by Dave’s feet. She pushed a few strands of white hair back from her eyes. “Something’s bothering you.”

 

“Yeah, you are.” He nudged her half-heartedly with one foot.

 

She rolled her eyes. “Dave.”

 

“What?” He crossed his arms behind his head, forcing his posture into the most nonchalant shape imaginable. He was a Strider. He was king of nonchalant. Scratch that, he was president; he hadn’t just been _born_ into such a role, he had been elected, because no sensible enfranchised member of the sovereign state of chill could look at him and say anything other than “Damn, that’s the guy, right there. That’s our leader.”

 

“I don’t know if I was meant to be able to hear any of those mumblings, and I’m not sure I would have wanted to.” Without his noticing, a notepad and pen had appeared in Rose’s hands.

 

Dave paled. “Holy _fuck_ , no.” He rolled off the couch and jumped to his feet. “Absolutely not. No fuckin’ therapy, not today, you Freud-fanatic fuck.”

 

Rose sighed and dropped the notepad back into her bag. “You’re no fun.”

 

“Good.” He made a point of wrinkling his nose, so there was no chance his irritation could be hidden by his shades.

 

“At least tell me Karkat has talked to you.” She climbed back to her feet, bag in hand.

 

“What?” Dave froze. “What the fuck has he been saying?”

 

“Now.” Rose clicked her pen once before sliding it into her pocket. “That would be a breach of patient confidentiality.”

 

“You.” Dave hissed a breath slowly through gritted teeth. “You are not a therapist. Karkat is not a patient.”

 

“Well, you got me there.” Rose smiled, slinging the bag over her shoulder. “It appears that an important conversation is still to be had. I will have to chase him up about that.”

 

She turned in the direction of the door, but Dave hopped forward, taking her by the arm and turning her back towards him.

 

“Please,” Dave said, and it was only when Rose’s eyes widened that he noticed the level of intensity he had allowed to slip into his voice. “Was it about …me? And, uh.” He began to blush under her gaze. “…feelings?”

 

Rose smirked. “It seems that you may already know what he wishes to discuss.”

 

“No, I mean, we already talked – shit, look, I fucked up.”

    

Rose’s eyebrows furrowed into an expression it took Dave a moment to recognise: concern. There was a moment of silence before she responded. “Should I retrieve my notepad?”

 

Dave clenched his hands for a moment before his shoulders slumped in defeat. “Yeah, maybe.”

 

She took her seat on the arm once again, eyes kind. “Let’s talk.”

 

And then they talked.

 

***

 

Early evening was drawing dark shadows across the city when Karkat arrived home after his shift. Dragging himself through the door on limbs of lead, he pushed it shut behind him with a sigh.

 

Dave had been busy in his absence; the kitchen-living room area had been tidied, all evidence of their morning baking session gone save for the plate of flapjacks still resting on the countertop, more than half of which had now vanished. Karkat turned, about to head into his room and change when he spotted Dave on the couch, fast asleep. His shades were pushed up onto his forehead and he was splayed out beneath a giant woollen blanket. Karkat wrinkled his nose. He had at least five identical blankets in his room, all donated by the queen of excessive knitting herself, but it was still pretty fucking rude of Strider to go ahead and help himself to one. Karkat leaned against the back of the couch, studying the peaceful expression which had smoothed over Dave’s features in his sleep. His lips were twitching a little, probably from some sort of dream-monologue. It would take a lot more than unconsciousness to shut Strider up.

 

The thought made Karkat snort aloud. Dave muttered something inaudible and wriggled a little, and Karkat shoved a hand in his mouth to silence himself. Waking Dave would be even fucking ruder than blanket theft and taking up the whole couch, considering that he apparently hadn’t slept last night. Instead, carefully, he slid Dave’s shades from his forehead, folded them up and placed them on the arm of the couch above his head.

 

Kartat returned a few minutes later, his uniform abandoned in favour of his usual thick grey jumper. He found Dave blinking awake on the couch.

 

“What time is it?” he asked groggily.

 

“It’s move the fuck over and share the damn couch o’clock.” Karkat gave Dave’s legs a shove, and Dave obliged.

 

“Where the fuck are m’shades?” Dave yawned, rubbing his eyes in the crook of his arm.

 

“Look behind you, halfwit.”

 

Eyes still closed, Dave reached behind his head and fumbled, fingers catching on his shades only to knock them from the couch entirely. They landed on the floor with a clatter, and Dave swore under his breath.

 

“Jesus, Strider.” Karkat pulled himself back onto his feet, retrieving Dave’s shades for him before flopping back down. “Go back to fucking sleep, it’s like interacting with a coma patient.”

 

“Nah.” Dave yawned again. “Was waitin’ for you.”

 

Karkat hugged his arms to his chest. “Do I want to know why?”   

 

Dave pushed himself upright, shaking his head as if hoping to knock the drowsiness from his head. The sun outside had just dipped below the skyline, leaving no more than a faint orange glow on the horizon punctuated by distant black outlines of a murder of crows swooping and soaring through the sky. Dave’s eyes followed them for a few moments, apparently mesmerised, and Karkat took the opportunity to study his flatmate as he was bathed in the orange glow of the city. Dave turned back to him, catching Karkat in the act. Karkat’s eyes dropped away as he flushed red. “Shit. Sorry.”

 

Dave cleared his throat. “I don’t mind.”

 

“You should.”

 

Dave behaved as though he hadn’t heard. “I was talking with Rose earlier. She came to drop that off.” He gestured to the purple blanket which had slid to the floor without Karkat noticing.

 

Karkat leant down and scooped it up, pulling it around his shoulders. It smelled of Dave. “And there I was thinking you had been pilfering my supply.”

 

“Nah. It’s cosy, though.”

 

“You can keep this one, if you want. I have no idea why she keeps giving them all to me.”

 

“It’s because the Maryam household is literally full to bursting with woollen works, and Kanaya has imposed a blanket ban, pun _totally_ intended, on any more products of Rose’s knitting. You’re enabling her by accepting them, Karkat. You’re giving purpose to her addiction.”

 

“Fuck.” Karkat twitched the blanket around his shoulders. “So, do you want it?”

 

“Not my style, but thanks for the offer. Anyway, like I was saying, Rose was here, and we were talking.”

 

Karkat tensed. “So?”

 

“So, you know what Rose is like. All psychoanalysis and psychiatry and other shit beginning with _psych_.”

 

“Well, fuck.”

 

“Yeah, pretty much, except… I don’t know, it was kind of helpful, I guess. She helped me sort some stuff out, headspace-wise. See, the filing system up here was goddamn pandemonium, but know we have it all organised, thematically, alphabetically, hell, we even got cross-referencing up in here. We got a fucking _index_.”

 

“Dave…” Karkat rubbed at his temple.

 

“Yeah, shit, sorry, off-topic. My point is, uh… about last night. I kind of panicked. And I mean _kind of_ in the same way that the Star Wars prequels were _kind of_ a disaster, get me?”

 

“Get to the point already, Strider.” Karkat’s hands curled into fists as fear crawled up his spine. He had thought they were going back to _normal_.    

 

“Well, you see, the reason I panicked is…well, mostly because of a few really shitty experiences to do with flatmates and dating that I’d _really_ rather not get into, but apparently all that has given me… What was it? Shit, Rose gave me her notes, let me see…” He reached into a pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper covered in Rose’s looping lilac handwriting.

 

“Fuck, you let her take _notes_?! Are you fucking insane?”

 

“According to her diagnosis, nah. I’ve just got…” He trailed off, brow furrowing as he tried to make sense of Rose’s shorthand. “….abandonment issues?”

 

“Oh. Do you think she’s right?”

 

“Hey, Rose is the pseudo-psychologist, not me. But, uh.” Dave turned his head away, drawing his knees in against himself. “She could be onto something. So, yeah, that’s why I flipped out a little. I’m not, I mean.” he swallowed. “I do kind of like you.” He let out a slow, wavering breath. “A lot.”

 

“Oh,” Karkat murmured. It was only when Dave drew in another shaky breath that Karkat noticed his panic. “Shit, dude, no, don’t worry. It’s cool, we’re cool.” He shuffled forward until he was sitting at Dave’s side, their bodies pressed against each other.

 

“Cool,” Dave replied with a shaky grin.

 

“Hey.” A sudden burst of confidence surged through his veins, and Karkat took Dave’s hand, threading their fingers together. “Hey, it’s fine. I like you too. In case it wasn’t obvious.”

 

“Well, damn.” Dave’s smile grew, and he squeezed Karkat’s hand. “That’s hella gay, dude.”

 

“Shut the fuck up, Strider.” Karkat shook his head, failing to hide the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “And again, because apparently you’re a dense sack of shit with the social competence of an infant, I guess I need to spell this out for you too.” Freeing his hand from Dave’s grasp he instead used it to take Dave’s head in his hand, thumb swiping across his cheek. He felt the tremor the gesture caused shiver from Dave’s body through to his, and he was close enough to see through the dark glass of Dave’s shades to the wide eyes behind them. “I have no fucking intention of leaving you. Okay?”

 

“Okay.” A tipsy grin spread over Dave’s face as though he had been inebriated through Karkat’s words alone. “But I should warn you, my fake therapist has recommended that I receive constant reassurance on such topics. So I hope you won’t mind repeating that a few times.”

 

“Oh, I think my vocal chords might be able to stand it. If they don’t fucking melt into treacle-sludge from all this sickeningly adorable bullshit first.”

 

“Aw, am I _adorable_ , Karkat?”

 

“No, listen, that was fucking-!” Karkat would certainly have continued, were it not for the hand on his shoulder gently pulling him down, at which point all thoughts of objection were lost as Dave’s lips met his.

 

He no longer needed the blanket Dave had fallen asleep under, not now that he was wrapped in Dave’s arms, surrounded by his scent and his warmth. When Dave’s hands found his hair he couldn’t stop from gasping into his mouth, and Dave took it as encouragement, threading his fingers through Karkat’s hair until he was almost tugging on it enough to send shivers down Karkat’s spine.

 

Karkat’s nose bumped into the cold plastic of Dave’s shades, and for the first time Dave showed no discomfort as he slid them from his eyes, looking up at Karkat with awestruck scarlet eyes.

 

“Fuck.” Karkat muttered.

 

Dave froze. “What?”

 

“Your eyes.”

 

Panic-stricken, Dave moved as if to return the shades, but Karkat caught his arm, stopping him. “They’re beautiful.”

 

And now Dave had a blush to match them. He held his face in his hands. “Goddamn it, you ass!”

 

 “I was being fucking nice you prick, stop complaining!”

 

They quickly, and not for the first time, dissolved into bickering.

 

This time, when Dave’s shades dropped onto the floor, neither of them bothered to retrieve them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *jazz hands* There you have it, folks.
> 
> Once again, thank you so much for reading! This fic was a really fun way to get used to writing for a new fandom and a new bunch of (crazily hard to write!) characters. You can bet your ass I'll be doing a lot more HS stuff over the next however long, but seeing as I'm still feeling pretty new to the fandom, feel free to contact me with prompts, fic recs, or anything really, here or on tumblr.
> 
> I hope I didn't infect you all with my subconscious flapjack cravings too badly...
> 
> Last but not least, please let me know what you thought!
> 
> Until next time \\(^.^)/

**Author's Note:**

> Please be kind, I have no idea what I'm doing. 
> 
> ~ carcats.tumblr.com ~


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